


Memory Shines Like Teeth and Moonlight

by lynnenne, thekita



Series: The Insectverse [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-10
Updated: 2007-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnenne/pseuds/lynnenne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekita/pseuds/thekita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Two of the "Insectverse" series. Spike and Angel grow closer emotionally but don't have a clue how to deal with it. Oh, and they have lots of sex. Co-written with Kita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Shines Like Teeth and Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two of the "Insectverse," a series of four fics that can be read separately or as a whole. Co-written with Kita, this part was conceived as a role-play fic, set between "Angels &amp; Insects" and "Prometheus Unbound."

_You can fling me around your rooms later_, Spike had said, and he had fully expected to have bruises on his body by morning. But when he got to Angel’s room, the old man was sitting on the end of the bed, staring at his hands; and Spike had the feeling that he didn’t plan on using them for marking skin.

“Hey,” Spike said, standing in the middle of the room, suddenly awkward and fidgety.

“Hey,” Angel said. He didn’t look up.

“Blue’s done giving me the entomological lesson.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, feeling as if some of Illyria’s ants had crawled under his skin. Angel just nodded. “You okay?” Spike asked.

“Yeah, just…” Angel rubbed his brow. “Just tired.” He looked up, and his eyes reminded Spike of long nights after the soul, when sleep was an undeserved reward. “I think I’m just gonna… get some rest. That okay with you?”

Spike swallowed. “Um… yeah. Sure.” He nodded, as if he understood what was going on in Angel’s head. Could be guilt. It was Angel, after all. Or maybe he _was_ just tired. Maybe a bit of both.

But Spike couldn’t ignore the creeping voice in his head, the one that whispered, _He doesn’t have any use for you, now that the boy’s gone._

“You can stay,” Angel added, but to Spike’s ears, it sounded like an afterthought. “I mean, if you want.”

He thought about it, for a minute. Might be nice, to have the company. He'd gotten used to it, having Connor around. Wasn't looking forward to waking up alone.

But Spike was done holding people and watching them sleep. Never worked out well for him.

“No. No, it’s fine.” He looked past Angel’s head, at the window beyond. “Dark out. I’ll just… head back to my place. You get some rest.”

He turned on his heel, careful not to let Angel see the clench of his jaw as he left. But he may have pulled the door closed a little too hard on his way out.

*

It had been three days (twelve hours, twenty-four minutes) since Connor had gone. A bit less (twelve hours, twenty-four minutes) since Spike followed suit, with an eye roll and a half-hearted door slam which meant he was probably pissed off at Angel. Again. Still.

They'd managed to make it through a whole day and half without bashing one another's heads in, which was doubtless some kind of record. Of course, Connor had been between them the entire time. Sometimes literally. Then Connor went home; and Angel and Spike were right back to circling one another like hungry, homeless cats around a garbage pail.

Angel shut his desk drawer with a muffled thud, and stared at the computer.

_Spike-_

_Have you talked to Connor?_

_-A_

Six words should not have taken him a good half an hour to type. They did anyway.

*

Anna Nicole Smith had a nice pair of tits. She may have lived her life like a low-rent Monroe wannabe, but at least she'd been smart enough to know how to cash in on what god and plastic surgery had given her. Millions of sad, lonely blokes around the world were probably glued to their computer screens right now, paying good money for the privilege of laying eyes on her assets.

Spike took another drink of beer as he googled "celebrities" and "nude" for the fourth time. Sad and lonely, that was him; but he'd be damned (again) if he was gonna spend what little beer money he had on porn. The Internet may be made for it, but it oughta be free, dammit. It was in the Constitution, or some such.

Couldn't blame a bloke for trying. Bloody days since he'd had a good tumble. Should've expected it, really. Not like Spike could give Angel (breath, warmth, a beating heart) choirs of little birdies. Just a bloody fine shag, and Angel didn't even seem to want that. Bugger always was too uptight for his own good.

A light flashed in the corner of the screen, telling him he had mail. He checked his inbox, hoping for porn spam. Probably trying to sell me Viagra, he snorted to himself. Least I'm not _that_ sad.

_Spike-_

_Have you talked to Connor?_

_-A_

He sat there, watching the cursor blink for about 20 minutes. Typical, he thought. Gives me the cold shoulder, and then comes sniffin’ round when he wants something.

Spike typed out and deleted a half a dozen snarky replies. Finally sent off a one-word answer:

_No._

*

Angel read the single word reply from Spike, then hit the delete button with more force than the computer apparently believed was healthy. The thing made a buzzing sound at him. He scowled at it, but it just sat there, unimpressed. Stupid computer and Spike had a lot in common.

He wasn't going to dwell on it. Wasn't going to give in to his urge to drive to Stanford. Wasn't going to sit here, and get roped into a pissing contest with a machine, or the moronic vampire on the other end of it. And he sure as hell wasn't going to pick up his phone, dial the moronic vampire and ask out loud—

"What the fuck jerked a knot in your ass?"

*

Spike's shoulder stiffened, nearly crushing the phone receiver against his ear.

"What? You asked me if I'd heard from him, and I told you." What else did the bugger want from him?

_Might as well ask me what *didn't* get up my ass._

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that part out loud.

*

Angel frowned at the phone. He was getting really tired of making facial expressions at inanimate objects.

"What are you talking about— look, never mind, I'm gonna—" Angel stopped and opened his desk drawer again. Closed it. Patted his pockets.

He sighed. "Do you still have my cigarettes?"

*

The line was quiet for a few minutes, and Spike could practically see Angel's expression through the phone. It was the one he liked to call "clueless brow." Thank Christ Angel was so thick sometimes. Saved his arse more than once.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Think they're buried at the bottom of my coat pocket somewhere, underneath a few peeled-off beer labels."

He picked at his fingernails, suddenly needing a smoke very, very badly.

*

"Pete's Bar, right across from the photography shop run by that midget guy who’s really a Fr'klsh demon. You know where that is?" Angel said, grabbing his coat.

"Uh— yea," Spike answered, slowly.

"Ten minutes. Bring my cigarettes."

Angel hung up the phone.

*

Spike took his time getting to Pete's. Finished his beer. Googled a few more starlets. Had another smoke (Angel's, of course). Then ambled through the streets looking for a damsel to save. Sadly, he didn't find any, or else he would have had an excuse not to show up at all.

When he got there, the place was half-empty. Angel sat at the back, away from the bar. Spike sprawled into the chair next to him, legs splayed, and thunked the half-empty pack of smokes onto the table.

*

Angel grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the stained table, lit two of them, then handed one over to Spike without looking up.

Spike grunted. Angel listened to the sound of his sharp inhale, the squeak of leather as he slumped further down into his seat. After two puffs of his own, he finally lifted his head.

"You look kinda like shit," Angel said, but somehow, it didn't sound unkind. Truth was, Angel felt a lot like Spike looked. The realization made his teeth hurt.

*

Spike's lip curled up at the corner. "Thanks ever so. You really know how to romance a girl." He waved the waiter over—at least he thought it was the waiter. It was hard to tell, what with all the extra arms and legs. But whatever-it-was was carrying a tray, and it plopped two pints of Guinness down on the table as it scurried on by.

"I'm buying," Angel said, and threw a few bills on the table. "That romantic enough for you?" Spike just snorted.

He took a deep swig, and closed his eyes. Savored the frost sliding down his throat. Angel never closed his eyes when he drank, even when he was evil.

Spike never got that.

When he opened his eyes, Angel was studying the beer ring on the table.

"You're not looking so lively yourself, there, Gramps. Been missing your boy, have you?"

*

Spike still (again always) sounded angry. Angel tried one more time to figure what it could be about now, but then there was beer and banter, and— Spike would tell him, eventually. He always did.

Angel stared at him while he swallowed, dark lashes on white cheeks. Even with that stupid hair, when Spike closed his eyes, he looked human. It made Angel want to run his fingertips across the pink-mouthed scowl.

(missing your boy, have you)

And it took a second to understand which one Spike meant.

"Yeah."

Spike said nothing, just finished off his beer and stared at his neglected cigarette.

"What about you?" Angel asked.

*

Truth to tell, Spike _had_ been missing Connor. Missed playing video games with him. Missed the openness of him, the way he never had to beat his chest or talk in code. The way Connor never hid behind a big desk or a Batmobile.

Or a leather coat.

Angel was staring at him, like he'd forgotten his way home, and for a minute, Spike just wanted to take his hand and remind him.

He shrugged. "Not really mine to miss, is he?"

*

(not mine to miss)

Flashthought of Spike, naked and bound to his bed, Connor kneeling between his legs, head thrown back, mouth open. Of Spike cradling Connor's face in both hands while he came. Of the two of them, crouched on the floor at Angel's feet, caressing Angel's dick with trembling hands, smiling at a joke Angel didn't get.

Angel finished off his third beer of the night and turned to Spike. "I will never fucking understand you," he said. It was probably the most honest thing he'd said to Spike in two centuries.

*

Spike laughed, but there was no humor in it. Of course Angel didn't understand him. Angel had spent the first two decades of their time together beating it into Spike's brain that nothing was his. And now, a hundred years and two souls later, he couldn't fathom that Spike had finally learned the lesson.

They always were a bit thick, the both of them.

"Just... boy's got his own life now, doesn't he? The life you gave him." He patted his coat pockets for his fags. Lit one up, hoping Angel wouldn't twig to the slight tremble in his fingers. "All I did was help him find it again." He shrugged. "Doesn't need me anymore."

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Because what else was he good for?

*

Angel reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. For some reason, the action reminded of him Giles (innocence ruined and pasts forever lost). Movie reels flickered just behind Angel's lids, random and jittering, out of his control. He felt old in every way that really mattered; and it seemed impossible that his bones and skin did not feel the same, that they just wanted beer and blood, when the rest of Angel wanted nothing more than a long long rest.

"Doesn't need either one of us, really," Angel agreed.

(Somewhere, a few hours away, Connor was probably asleep. A few countries away, Buffy was— probably out dancing in some club. Angel always secretly suspected that she'd like Connor. Both of them.)

Spike swirled the last of his beer around in the bottom of his cup, studying it like tea leaves. It was possible he felt as old and lost as Angel did, but he would never say. Not to Angel, in any case. Two nights ago, he'd walked out of Angel's place without a word, and Angel had just assumed it was anger.

He shut his eyes again, tried to conjure the image of Spike with mussed hair and an open smile, sprawled across his bed, calling him Da.

He swallowed. "Why's this so fucking hard?"

*

"I reckon it's 'cause we're bloody stupid."

That got him a chuckle, at least.

Spike swigged back the last of his beer. Screwed up his courage. Funny thing... before the soul, he'd never been afraid to make the first move. Even when it'd ended up with him arse-flat on the pavement.

"This beer tastes like piss," he said, a little too casually. "Got any of the good stuff back at your place?"

*

"Got two hundred year old whiskey back at my place," Angel said. He pocketed the cigarettes. "And really expensive cigarettes."

Spike smirked at him.

Angel shook his head. "Come on, then. This music is making me want to kill things."

*

There was nothing to kill on the way home. Shame, that. Spike could have used a good tussle. The beer hadn't even given him a buzz, and his hands kept twitching as he walked.

When they arrived back at the Hyperion, he did a full turn around the lobby.

"Where's Blue?" he asked. He was not looking for an escape route. Just... checking for company, that's all.

"Around somewhere," Angel said. "She spends a lot of time on the roof these days.”

Angel jangled the keys to his office out of his pocket. Spike followed, badly needing a shot. Or ten.

*

Then they were alone, with nothing but two glasses and a hundred some years of history between them. Spike leaned his head back against the leather cushion, and Angel watched the slow dip of his throat as he swallowed the whiskey. Something warm flared inside Angel's belly.

"You know," Angel said, looking at the bottle, "I think this stuff is older than you are."

*

Spike's eyes closed, savoring the golden-smooth burn against the back of his throat. For a rare moment, he was still, just feeling the warmth sliding along his limbs. Angel always had the good stuff.

"Damn sight smoother than me," Spike croaked, eyes still closed. "And I don't say that about too many things in this world."

When he opened his eyes, Angel was looking at him as if blood, rather than whiskey, was foremost in his mind.

Spike swallowed hard.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked, clearing his throat as he spoke. It was impossible, he knew, but he was sure his face was flushed.

*

"From the cellar," Angel said, deliberately misunderstanding. He grinned, "there's five more like it down there. Also some port, and a couple bottles of Italian wine that I might have stolen from the Wolfram and Hart offices last year."

Now Spike was grinning too. His neck and cheeks were pink, and he was clutching the crystal tumbler to his chest like kid clutches a stuffed toy.

Angel tossed back the rest of his whiskey, set the empty glass on the table in front of them. Then he stood up, and shrugged out of his coat.

"I'm going to bed. You coming or going?"

*

And for maybe the first time in his life, Spike had no idea what to say.

He sat, holding his whiskey, staring up at Angel; who was standing in front of him, eyeing him like dinner. Spike couldn't feel his feet.

He'd come here for this, hadn't he? Wasn't nothing big. Just a shag, really. Nothing they hadn't done just days before.

And yet somehow, it felt like he was back in the Hellmouth with his skin on fire.

(I love you)

(No, you don't)

"Um..." was all he could manage.

*

"Uhm?" Angel repeated. "And the two of you give me shit for being a girl?" He stripped out of his shirt, tossing it at Spike, who caught it with one hand and a scowl.

Angel grinned, (back on familiar land at last) reaching for his own belt buckle. Spike stared at Angel's hands as they slid the leather through each loop, one by one.

"Unless you'd rather go back to that shithole you call an apartment and download more free porn," Angel's smile was still wide and benevolent.

*

Spike had to admit, the view here was much better than sitting in front of his computer screen. Angel's fingers worked his belt, riding just below his hipbones, and Spike half-expected him to fold it in half and snap it at him. The thought sent a rush of heat through him, starting in his dick and ending in a dirty grin.

"I dunno." His voice lowered, and he sunk further into the leather couch. "Could go home and google Brad Pitt. See if he's got a bigger dick than you."

*

"Could," Angel said agreeably, palming the belt.

The leather couch squeaked as Spike shifted on it. When he looked up at Angel, his tongue was pressed against the inside of his cheek. Spike managed to make even the most mundane of actions appear obscene.

Angel undid the top button on his own pants, and leaned down, one hand on either side of the pillows behind Spike's head. He lowered his voice (threats and secrets whisper the same), "But unless Brad Pitt's gonna leap out of the screen and fuck you til you choke, it's really not a competition."

*

Angel's arms flanking his head like columns; wide, bare expanse of chest looming in front of him; and just like that, Spike was a goner. His eyes fixed on the open button on Angel's pants, hovering at eye level like an obscene wink.

His fingers reached out and nimbly slid the zipper down, silk boxers bunching through the opening.

Could have reached through the fabric and took out Angel's cock. Sucked it to the back of his throat. His mouth watered.

Instead, he caressed it through the soft fabric, with the lightest of touches. He may be a girl, but Spike still knew a thing or two about torture.

*

Silk wasn't much of a barrier for those long, cool fingers, and Spike always had known just how Angel liked (needed) to be touched. He wrapped one fist around silk and cotton, pinched the tip of Angel's dick, hard, with his other hand. He made Angel hiss, made his hips jerk and his eyes flutter shut.

Angel could practically *hear* Spike's grin.

But when he opened his eyes, Spike was just staring up at him, mouth open and brow furrowed, looking hungry (hopeful). Angel grabbed him by his collar, hauled him to his feet. Wrapped one hand around the back of Spike's neck, and kissed him with all his teeth. Swallowed the taste of alcohol and smoke, and the small, helpless noises from the back of Spike's throat.

*

Angel's big hands palmed the back of Spike's skull, angling his head until Spike's mouth was crushed against his. Spike's lips opened wider and he breathed in Angel's scent. Always the old scents with Angel—sex and malice and mayhem.

Spike's arms went around Angel's back. He was still wearing his leather coat, and the fabric creaked and groaned against his shoulders. He mumbled a frustrated curse into Angel's mouth, opened his eyes.

"Wait..." Spike muttered, pulling away just far enough to tug the offending garment off his back. He threw it to the floor like a gauntlet.

"Better?" Angel grinned. He didn't give Spike time or breath to answer.

*

"No," Spike mumbled into Angel's mouth.

Angel pulled away, blinking.

(It was dark and quiet, and Angel's bed was too big. You can stay, he'd said. And Spike said, no.)

"What the fuck—" he started, fingers curled at his sides like sleeping snakes.

Spike tugged his t-shirt over his head, tossed it onto the floor on top of his coat. His hair stood up in random points, and he was grinning—the one that looked more like sex than actual sex. Then he grabbed Angel's beltloop and pulled him closer.

"*That's* better," he said.

For the first time since Connor had left again, Angel laughed.

*

The sound was strange and foreign to Spike's ears, and he hadn't known until this moment how much he'd missed it. Missed seeing Angel smile, the way it lit his whole face. Missed the way his eyes crinkled in the corners.

Once, that noise would have grated on Spike's ears like the sound of his own name (_Willie_) falling from Angel's lips. And now, Spike was making him laugh. Spike was bloody _happy_ to make Angel laugh.

It occurred to him, for the first time, that maybe the old man had been missing more than just Connor these last few days.

He smiled, soft and shy. Slid his hand up around the back of Angel's neck, and drew him down for a deep, long kiss. Angel's lips were warm, and his breath was almost alive against Spike's cheek.

Spike pulled away, but kept his forehead tipped against Angel's. His hand caressed the small hairs at the base of Angel's skull.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered.

*

Angel couldn't remember the last time Spike had turned that smile his way. Maybe the answer was never.

That look, that voice, that *face*; it was almost William, alive and gentle. Needful. Spike didn't let William out much in front of Angel, definitely never took his coat and mask off long enough for him to stay.

Spike had looked at Connor like that.

The base of Angel's spine tingled in time to Spike's fingertips. He swallowed, hard, around the lump in his throat. "Ok," he said.

*

They kissed all the way up the stairs. Stumbled over each other's mouths, over each other's feet. Danced clumsily into Angel's bedroom, the door splintering against Spike's back, Angel's knuckles scraping against the knob. Spike wasn't sure, but they might have spun 360 degrees between the doorway and the bed. He was dizzy enough that it felt that way.

The backs of Angel's knees collided with the mattress and he let go of Spike's arms, tumbling onto the soft sheets. He looked up at Spike with parted lips, eyes wide and hopeful.

Spike had never seen Angel look at anyone that way, except Connor. It made his chest flutter like a heartbeat.

He knelt over Angel, fingers tracing a line down from his collarbone to the center of his chest. His skin glowed in the dim light, smooth and perfect.

"Missed this," Spike whispered, voice full of wonder.

*

Angel ran his thumb over Spike's bottom lip, watched his tongue flicker out to meet it. He felt naked already, stripped and shivering. He didn't drop his eyes.

"What did you miss?"

*

Spike blinked at Angel's question. Wasn't like him to be so direct. Wasn't like him to talk at all.

For a minute he thought about giving the smartass answer. _Missed seeing you on your back_ was on the tip of his tongue. But Angel's thumb was on his tongue, too, tasting sweeter than the words; and the look in Angel's eyes was boring into him, opening up something new and shining inside.

"Missed touching you," he said softly, hands moving in long, slow sweeps over Angel's belly. "Tasting you." He turned his head towards Angel's hand, sucked the thumb all the way into his mouth, and closed his eyes.

*

Which had to be a lie, really, because less than 48 hours ago Spike had done all that and more with (to) Angel.

And before, there'd been decades where they hadn't even laid eyes on one another. The word "miss" never entered into any of their post-reunion conversations. Nor the word "you," unless it was followed by an expletive.

Angel wanted to call Spike on that, to push and claw until they were back on familiar ground. Angel didn't have a map for this. Angel didn't have a fucking clue.

"Ok," is what came out of his mouth instead. Because it turned out, he wanted this more.

*

Spike took the answer at face value. He knew that Angel still didn't get it. That he had no idea how much Connor had changed things between them—even though the boy was no longer _literally_ between them. How the memory of an open smile and soft skin shone through Angel's eyes; how a warm, beating heart had thumped new life into Spike's chest.

But that was okay. Spike didn't want to talk about it. Talking always got him into trouble. Instead, his fingers hooked into Angel's waistband, peeling off pants and boxers in one smooth move.

His thumbs made little circles on Angel's hipbones, moving down and inwards, into the hollow where the tops of his thighs met his groin. Angel's cock lay flat against his belly, the tip glistening. Spike ran his index finger up the length of it, from the soft skin of Angel's balls up to the head. Angel's eyes fluttered closed, and he made a small noise.

Spike dipped his head, swirled his tongue over the head of Angel's cock, and sucked it into his mouth.

*

Angel hissed, arched his back off the bed, dug his fingers into Spike's scalp.

Breath (not his) of a second to think about who else Spike had touched this way, with this strange sort of tenderness and care (BuffyConnorDrusilla). To think about how they had somehow all touched Angel with the same.

It took just one hard swallow around Angel's cock to make him stop thinking.

*

Spike moaned around the musky flavor in his mouth. He _had_ missed tasting Angel, even though he'd last done it only two days ago. Truth to tell, he'd been missing Angel for a long time before that. Before Connor was in his bed; before he burned up in the mouth of Hell; before China and a Slayer's blood and the sound of shattered glass (shattered families; Angel always did taste like home).

He curled his hand around the base of Angel's cock, his lips sliding further down until they met his fist. The tip of Angel's dick nudged against the back of his throat, and he swallowed, forcing another intake of breath past the old man's lips. Fingers dug deeper into Spike's skull, but it felt more like a caress than a command. If Spike's mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied, he'd have been grinning with self-satisfaction.

Instead, he squeezed his fingers tighter, digging his tongue harder against the underside of Angel's prick.

*

Until this moment, Angel hadn't considered that he might have missed Spike, too.

Submarines and Sunnydale, Slayers and Shanshus, and through all of it, Spike always just—kept coming back (kept leaving), like a bad penny (like family).

Angel opened his eyes now, and Spike was looking back at him, all that ridiculous blue swallowing Angel whole.

He might have said Spike's name when he came, hard, down his throat.

*

Strangled cry ending in his name, and the sound went straight to Spike's balls. He closed his eyes, hands pressing down hard against Angel's hips, holding him down while he bucked and twisted.

When he finally stilled, Spike slid his mouth off him, shucking off his own jeans as he stood. Naked and hard, he stared down at the picture Angel made. Hair rumpled, lips wet, cheeks soft and dazed with a just-been-fucked glow.

He had never seen Connor in Angel's face, until this moment.

Spike knelt on the bed, prowled up Angel's body and kissed him, hard and hungry.

*

Angel was always the bigger one. All of his lovers (all those he loved) with their baby bird bones and trusting eyes, letting him play protector (daddy, Champion).

But it was illusion, finally (a lie). He hadn't kept any of them safe, and he certainly hadn't saved them.

Spike was pressing down on him; hard hands, mouth, cock, steel girder thin and strong. He'd helped send Angel to Hell once, had him tortured for a ring (for fun), he'd beaten Angel for the cup and the girl, but he would never ask for this.

Angel let his knees drop open. Grabbed Spike by the back of his neck, and watched his eyelids flutter like a kitten in a cat's teeth. Licked the drop of blood off the corner of his mouth, because they always did make each other bleed. (Some things wouldn't change.)

"Do it," he said, against Spike's ear.

*

That whisper, that command, made Spike moan out loud. And the fact that Angel was ordering him to do this...

He had to bite his lip, take a deep steadying breath, to keep from coming right then and there.

Spike lifted three fingers to Angel's mouth. Watched as the big man's eyes closed, lips sucking the digits inside, soft and slippery. He pulled his hand away, shoving the fingers into Angel's arse, rough and stretching and ungentle. Angel didn't seem to mind.

He rolled Angel's knees back till they were up around his ears. Took one final look, to make sure he wasn't dreaming this. Angel nodded.

Spike took a deep breath and thrust himself inside.

*

"Jesus," Spike said, and Angel laughed. Tried to laugh.

But it had been a while (hundred years) since it had been like this (hard and huge and ungentle).

_Contain and control — I know you_

When Spike bent his head to kiss Angel again, Angel moaned, and closed his eyes.

*

The kissing was almost better than the fucking. Angel's arms wrapped around Spike's neck, pulling him in tight (tight everywhere), and for a blessed moment Spike was still, inside, savoring the taste of Angel's tongue in his mouth, Angel's muscles clenching around his dick.

When he moved again, his whole body undulated in one long line, and Angel moved towards him, his cock hardening, grazing the soft hairs against Spike's belly.

Spike had long ago stopped believing in any kind of benevolent god. The only gods he believed in were the ones who bled teenage girls on top of towers, or killed his friends and took their faces. The Our Father, love-thy-neighbor kind... There was no such beast.

The closest thing Spike had ever had to a god in the last hundred years was the vampire moaning into his mouth, letting Spike puncture and penetrate him; as if rending Angel's flesh could bleed them both clean, wash away all their sins.

It couldn't, of course. But right at this moment, Spike believed that maybe it could.

"God," he moaned against Angel's mouth, and Angel kissed him again.

*

Angel thought about god all the damn time; about redemption and resurrection, forgiveness and free will. As far as he knew, Spike only went on about divinity when he was fucking. And maybe Spike had it right, after all, because it wasn't as if any higher power was handing out points to the Catholic and the undead.

The most constant presence in Angel's existence hadn't been divine or benevolent; it'd actually been Spike.

Angel was damn tired of having revelations that were tied to his dick.

He bit down on Spike's tongue and let the blood fill his mouth before swallowing. Reached over his head and grabbed the headboard, smiled his soulless, red (real, this is my face and my teeth) smile.

"Come on then, boyo, that the best you got?"

*

Spike's lips quirked up, wicked and wild. He bent his head down, swirled his tongue around Angel's lips, licking the blood off his fangs. Then knelt up on the mattress, hands pushing back on Angel's knees, and thrust hard. Angel's eyes closed for split-second, but his grin never faltered. Spike pushed and pounded, till the blood roared in his ears, while Angel(us) muttered encouragement and insults in equal measure.

He was flying, senses drunk with Angel's scent, with the sight of him there on the bed, on his back, baring his teeth. Spike’s skin felt too tight for his body, and the demon seemed to burst through his face rather than sliding into place.

"Touch yourself," Spike growled. "Show me how much you love it," and he barely recognized the voice as his own.

*

Now Angel did laugh; brighter and sharper for the fangs in his mouth and the curses in his head.

Spike was sweating, skin shining like melted ice in a whiskey glass, eyes narrowed and gold. Both fists were wrapped around Angel's hips, shifting bone and skin even as Angel arched against (into) his hold. Angel could feel Spike's dick in his fucking throat.

"Know I taught you better manners than that," he said, voice and smile shoved from the inside out, both just as crooked and easy, "say please."

*

"Bloody, fucking..." Spike might have snarled. The bastard just didn't know when to give it up. Too far up his own arse to let go, even when someone else was up his arse.

Spike grabbed Angel's balls in one hand and twisted. Hard.

"Not this time," he rumbled, tongue pressing against the point of one fang. "_You_ say please."

*

Spike was so fucking pretty when he was pissed off. (This was something Angel had managed not to forget.) Kneeling over him, all righteous fury and demon teeth, spitting words and blood onto Angel's chest. That and the hard twist to Angel's balls was almost enough to end the game, to get Angel off, right then, to leave Spike wondering what the hell he'd finally done right (wrong).

Angel shook his head. Dropped his hand to his own dick, and squeezed, base to tip, leaking over his fingers and stomach. Watched Spike watch him do it.

"You'd like that, hunh?" Angel's voice was low and smooth as a moan. "Not enough to fuck me, you want me to beg, too."

Spike growled at him again, "I want—"

"Fucking know what you want," Angel growled back.

He grabbed Spike by the back of the neck and rolled over, pressed Spike under him onto the sheets, deeper now, deep enough to make them both lose a breath (control).

Spike opened his eyes.

"Please." Angel said.

*

The sound of that word from _those_ lips, and Spike's vision was a world of red. He surged up against Angel, body following his dick. Grabbed Angel's cock in one fist and the back of his neck in the other, yanking on both until their torsos crashed together.

Spike bit deep into Angel's flesh, reduced to cock and fangs; growls and curses and blood thrumming as he came.

*

Even the thinnest of lines were important. The half second that meant missing a blade meant for his head, the single swallow of blood between just enough and no going back. The murky divide between man and demon.

 

And in the end, here, it wasn't about the fucking (tell me how he likes it) or the begging (no, *you* say please, there's a good daddy) or the getting off on it (coming all over Spike's belly and this time he knows he shouted Spike's name around a mouthful of blood and fangs), it was about what comes after.

Angelus would have lit a cigarette and flicked his ashes over that same flat, wet stomach. Would have called Drusilla in to lick it up. Would have thrown Spike out of his bed, had him snarling and uncertain again long before the sun came up. And it wasn't that Angel didn't consider all those choices; it wasn't even that none of them sounded appealing.

But somewhere on this side of the line, all Angel could do was lay back against the sheets and try to figure out what in the hell had just happened. Spike was very carefully not looking at him, while he searched for his own cigarettes in the mess they'd made of Angel's bed. Then he was giving one over to Angel, already lit, and Angel had never been so grateful for something to do with his hands.

*

A hundred years, Spike had waited for Angelus to let his guard down around him. To let him inside with more than just his dick or his teeth. To know that Angel was fucking _him_ and not just fucking _with_ him.

And now that it had happened, Spike didn't have a bloody buggering clue what to do with it. Angel might finally be seeing him, but he couldn't look at him.

Which was just as well, because Spike couldn't look at Angel, either.

He handed the cigarette over, careful not to let their fingers touch. Leaned his head back against the pillows. They smoked in silence for a few minutes.

"So," he finally asked, because Spike never did know how to keep from running off at the mouth. "You gonna call him?"

*

Angel blinked.

"No. I'm trying to do the whole 'letting him have his life' thing."

Spike nodded and Angel flicked some ash toward the glass on the nightstand.

"Hey," Angel added, smirking, "Does hiring someone to make sure he's all right without him ever knowing it count toward that?"

*

Spike laughed out loud. "Long as he doesn't twig to it and put your snitch in the hospital. Just make sure you get a better guy than last time."

It should have been awkward, alluding to anything that involved Buffy. But Angel must have been tired enough to let it slide, because he just nodded and kept on grinning.

"You could hire Blue to tail him. She doesn't even leave a scent behind her, and lord knows she's good at sneaking around here. Scared the shit outta me more times'n I can count."

*

"That would work if I could, you know, control her *at all*," Angel said, still smiling. He looked over at Spike, sitting next to him surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, rumpled and grinning back. "Also if Connor didn't have a thing for her."

Spike raised his eyebrows.

"Seriously," Angel went on. "Think it's the suit. It is kind of..." he waved his hand in a vague gesture.

*

"Catwoman?" Spike leered at him, and Angel made a face. "Give her a whip and a mask and she'd be the perfect match for your Batman routine."

"You always did have a thing for a woman with a whip." Angel smirked. "Well, unless it was Darla."

Spike flicked his ashes on the floor. "She never knew when to quit. Don't mind a spot of fun, but I prefer to keep my skin attached."

He remembered Darla, all golden hair and eyes, blood spattered over her cheeks, smile sharper than her fangs. She was glorious.

"I heard what she did. How Connor was born." He looked up at Angel finally, and his face softened. "I'm sorry."

*

Suddenly, Angel didn't want his cigarette anymore. The taste of ash was bitter on his tongue, and there hadn't been time to gather any of it in his hands before the rains came, leaving nothing to bury or to mourn.

"Me too," Angel said quietly. He handed Spike the ashtray, even though the dirty carpet seemed less important than it had a minute ago. "Did you — did Dru tell you, about what she did? How all of it happened?"

*

Spike shook his head. "All Dru said was that you set them both on fire. Connor filled me in on a bit. How she staked herself. Didn't really seem like something she'd do."

Angel's eyes were fixed on the sheets, on the mess and chaos of the bed. Spike tilted his head.

"You wanna tell me about it?"

*

"No, not really," Angel said.

Spike was already nodding, as if that was the answer he'd expected, when Angel started talking.

It was a few moments before Angel realized that he hadn't spoken the story aloud to anyone before, not in its entirety, and it was strange the way it all just tumbled out of him, like blood or prayers. Everything from Darla to Drusilla, from Connor and Wesley to Wolfram and Hart, all the now painfully obvious circles and turns of it, and all of his greatest sins coming to bite him spectacularly in the ass. He waited for Spike's derisive laughter, but it never came.

Instead, when he finished, Spike was staring at him with a look on his face that Angel couldn't even try to interpret. "Did— did Connor ever talk to you about that day? The mall, I mean. Does he remember it?" Angel dropped his voice, and his gaze. "I could never make myself ask him that."

*

Spike nodded. "He said it's like looking at pictures of someone else. He remembers what happened, but not how it felt. How he felt." Angel let out a small sigh, as if he'd been holding his breath. He was quiet now, and Spike was grateful. He couldn't remember the last time Angel had talked for so long.

"Thanks for telling me." Spike looked away, but he could see Angel nod out of the corner of his eye.

Spike slid down the pillows, till he was nearly laying flat against the bed. Stretched his arms above his head, and nudged Angel in the shoulder. Angel turned to look at him, and Spike's tongue poked out of his mouth, lips quirking up at the corners.

"Hey. Got any handcuffs? All that talk about women with whips got me all nostalgic and horny."

*

"Talk about beer and peanut butter makes you horny, Spike," Angel said.

Spike didn't bother to argue. Silence and stares and this was the sound of retreat, of repression, of share time being fucking over. Angel was all for it.

He turned onto his side, propped his head on one palm, met Spike's eyes. "We don't really need the cuffs, do we?" Angel's voice was a long slow drawl, and he dragged the back of his hand down the back of Spike's arms just as slowly, traced the veins standing still and blue as Spike grabbed the bedrails tighter. "You can be good." Angel smiled, flicked his tongue over his bottom lip. "When you have to be."

*

Angel's fingers on the inside of his arm were an exquisite torture device, feathers and lace bindings. It was like tugging on a string, one that ran beneath his skin down through his belly, ending in a delicious knot around his balls.

Maybe Angel was right. Maybe they didn't need the cuffs at all.

"Never been that good at being good." His voice dropped like falling down a well. "What'll you give me if I am?"

*

Angel grinned at the shiver that ran down Spike's chest.

He pinched Spike's bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. "I dunno," he said. "I've always been much better with punishment than rewards." He tugged Spike's lip once, then let go, leaned down to run his tongue over the pout.

When he leaned back again, Spike's eyes were half mast.

Angel pressed his palm over Spike's breastbone, kept him still as he breathed against his ear. "So whatd'ya want?"

*

Now there was a loaded question. What didn't Spike want? To sink his fangs into a warm neck and drink without guilt. Angel to open up to him again tomorrow like he had just now. Someone to love him. A good hard fuck. A rest. And a million other things he didn't deserve.

Instead, he closed his eyes, feeling that huge palm pressing him into the mattress; feeling Angel's lips brush against the edge of his ear.

"Want you to suck me off, Da," he whispered. "Please."

*

There was probably some kind of lesson to be learned here, too. About roles and reversals, and why slipping into old habits sometimes felt like running away, and other times like running home. The balance shifted every moment, measured by gasps and grins instead of breath and heartbeats, now that Connor was no longer laying between them, all honesty and open eyes.

"You still beg so sweet," Angel said, in the voice that used to make Drusilla purr, the one Angel carefully never took out while Connor had been there.

It still made Spike shake, too. Just like he shook when Angel ran the tip of his index finger from Spike's balls to his ass, then back up, sliding his thumb around the head of Spike's already dripping cock. He bent his head and followed the same path of slick, secret skin with the point of his tongue.

He looked up; Spike was biting his bottom lip, his knuckles white around the wood of the headboard.

"Don't fucking move," Angel said. Then he took Spike's cock to the back of this throat and swallowed; once, hard.

*

And suddenly, _all_ Spike wanted was to move. He hitched in a breath, ragged and gritty, a drowned man sucking in sand. Tasted blood on his lips, and for a moment he was sure that Angel had forced it out of him with the pressure of his mouth.

Angel eased back off his cock, tickled the underside with soft swipes of his tongue. Nibbled on the skin with blunt teeth. Then swallowed again, and Spike had to stiffen his whole body to keep from arching up. The pent up movement bubbled past his lips, _fuck_ and _Christ_ and _more, please yes anything just_

He could feel his fingers sinking into the wood grain of the headboard, impressions forming there like molded clay.

*

Angel lifted his head and clucked his tongue. Wrapped his hand around the base of Spike's dick, squeezed.

"All that so soon? Spike, Spike. I'm disappointed in you."

He stood up, watched the muscles of Spike's shoulders hunch in an effort to keep still. Watched the annoyed look flutter across his features. "Stay," Angel said, hand up, like he was talking to a puppy, and the scowl on Spike's face deepened, just a little. But his cock was hard, angry red, and leaking all over his own stomach.

Angel grabbed a neck tie and a belt from his closet, lay back down next to Spike, dragged the silk and then the leather across Spike's chest, down over his twitching dick. Rubbed along the base until Spike was grinding his teeth together trying not to arch into the touch.

"Remember when I could keep you like this all night long? Took you hours to start begging, then. Lasted for hours after, too. So fucking pretty." Angel made a loose knot with the tie, wrapped it around the base of Spike's cock. Palmed the belt in one fist.

"So if the sucking you off is reward," he said, tilting his head, one palm gently cradling Spike's balls, the other crumpling soft leather, "what're you willing to do to get it?"

*

Angel had picked a bloody fine time to start asking questions. Now, when all the blood in Spike's brain had rushed into his dick. He could barely put together two words longer than four letters, let alone articulate an answer.

And he supposed that was the point. Right now, he couldn't think of anything he wouldn't do to feel Angel's mouth on him again.

Angel was right. Once, he would have held on for hours before giving Daddy the satisfaction of hearing him beg. But something had shifted between them, in the space between a rain-soaked alley and this bed. And Spike was tired of pretending that he had any pride left to wound. Tired of holding back. Fucking sick and tired of acting like everything he wanted wasn't right here, right now, in this bed.

"Anything," he whispered, and Spike put all his surrender into his eyes. "Everything. Whatever you want."

*

Angel had no idea what to say in answer to a confession like that, so he said nothing. Just leaned in and dropped a kiss on Spike's forehead; another futile, familiar gesture that made his chest hurt, made him need to close his eyes.

He wound the leather around Spike's wrists, secured them to the headboard. "Do you remember, all those years ago, when we all slept together in the same bed?" he asked, tugging the belt tighter.

Spike nodded up at him, but Angel wasn't looking at his face. The question was rhetorical; of course he remembered. It could have been yesterday, this morning (now). The room stank like blood and sex, and they were both drowning in it. That had to be the reason for all of this; nothing else made any sense.

"Sometimes," Angel was saying, tugging the silk tighter around Spike's dick now, "I would wake up with a hand on me, and it was so soft, so small and soft, I wouldn't know until I opened my eyes if it was you, or Dru."

He pressed Spike's knees back, pressed himself inside on nothing more than spit and sweat. Spike's back arched.

"Don't come yet," Angel said, smiling a little at Spike's whine. "You said anything. Well, you're the one who used to write everything down, and I wanna hear what you remember."

*

_Pain, mostly_ was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn't say it. Didn't wanna think about all the times he'd been made to watch from the floor while Angelus fucked Dru into the mattress. When Darla had tied him down in a rage and flayed the skin off his back till he'd passed out from blood loss. When Daddy'd taken a knife to his balls, just to see if he could peel them like an apple in one long strip.

That memory made his dick soften just a little.

Not that Spike had been averse to a spot of torture himself. Just, he usually had to practice on humans, being at the bottom of the pecking order in their little pack. In fact, it was when he’d put those skills to good use that Angelus had looked at him with the most pride.

"I remember," he said, and Angel's thumb swiped over the head of his cock, reviving its flagging interest, "a time when we came back from a real nasty hunt. My shirt got all ripped open and I was soaking in blood. You dragged me back to our room while the girls were still out, and you stripped me down and licked the blood off my chest," and Angel swirled his tongue around Spike's nipple, making him gasp, "from neck to navel."

*

Angel was grateful Spike had chosen that particular reminiscence; god knew he could have picked other, more painful moments. He was just as grateful for the guilt hitting him in the chest, following fast behind the shock of lust that memory instantly awoke. Angel kept all his own memories of those days in the same shiny box, and labeled it forbidden, praying the weight of shame and secrets could anchor a soul. It was broken open now, and Angel was looking inside, pawing through the pictures, shining like teeth and moonlight.

And if it wasn't fair that Spike had no such worries, it also wasn't fair that Angelus had raised him up to be just what he'd turned out— bound to Angel's bed with leather and recollection, talking about the single time they'd managed to come to closest to gentleness with one another.

Angel realized he couldn't remember how that night ended.

Spike's legs were wrapped around Angel's waist, bruises were starting to bloom on his wrists as he fought the ties. Angel leaned in and bit Spike's bottom lip until it bled, kissed him hard, fucked him harder.

"You still make the same sounds."

*

He supposed he did. Christ knew, it felt the same, Angel riding him high and hard, Spike's hips rolling off the bed, bolts of pleasure shooting up his spine. Made sense that it'd bubble out of his mouth in helpless whines, the same tang of blood flavoring his moans.

Yet somehow the sounds felt different. Slid out smooth and willing, instead of stuck in his throat, choking on resentment and the taste of Dru's perfume.

"You don't," Spike said, twisting up his hips, and Angel made a grunt that sounded like _please_.

(_Not enough to fuck me, you want me to beg, too,_ and the mocking ring of laughter was something Spike didn't miss at all.)

He grinned, pulled harder against the belt and twisted again. "Think I like these new sounds a lot better."

*

Angel laughed a little, moaning when that made Spike shudder, tighten like a fist around his dick. "That's ok," he managed, "I like you better now, too."

Spike grinned, did the shudder-hip thing again. Angel bit his own bottom lip. Pushed Spike's knees further up and apart, shoved himself harderdeeperfaster inside.

"Don't come yet," he said, already so damn close himself. He tugged hard on the scrap of silk that wrapped Spike's cock, "make it worth your while."

*

"God, yes," Spike moaned, and he didn't know what that meant. Yes, I won't come. Yes, this is already worth my while. Yes, Christ, fuck, harder, Angel, _Sire_ and Spike twisted his neck as far away from his arms as he could, leather bonds groaning against the boards.

*

"Not yet," Angel said again, words tearing into snarls, skin tearing under fangs, coming hard and long. And maybe Spike didn't really sound the same or taste the same, less hesitance less (innocence), but he still managed to listen (when he wanted to).

He must have wanted to. Angel was still gripping the silk around Spike's dick when he was finished, and Spike was quiet under him, all fluttery eyes and shaky arms. Angel snapped the leather free from the headboard, and crawled down Spike's body, undoing the tie much slower, covering Spike's skin with tongue and teeth.

*

Tongue sliding over his cock, dark and domineering, and Spike was undone (like leather, like silken ties). His fingers grappled for Angel's hair, back arching, face vamping, a litany of insensate sounds spilling from his lips, Christ god fuck yes "Jesus, Da" and he came hard down Angel's throat, the wound in his neck throbbing in time to the clutch of his hands.

When it was over he threw his head back against the pillows, sinking into the cradle of feathers. He couldn't find the strength to open his eyes.

*

Spike's hands were still in Angel's hair when he stopped panting (Darla used to hate that, made him sleep on the floor when he'd breathe in their bed), his fists kneading Angel's scalp like a sleepy, sated cat.

Angel smirked down at him. Spike managed to open one eye and look vaguely offended, but he didn't stop the — caressing, is what it was. Fucking caressing.

And before Angel could smirk some more, Spike pulled him closer and kissed him without any teeth at all.

*

Spike's head was still spinning. He felt dizzy, tingling from his fingers to the tip of his nose. He told himself that he must be hyperventilating, and that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the kiss.

The fact that his body didn't consume oxygen didn't enter into it.

Angel's mouth tasted musky and warm, salty and bitter from Spike's own come. His lips refused to move at first, like he'd forgotten how to kiss. And maybe he had—at least, forgotten how to kiss like this, unless he was kissing someone other than Spike.

Then, slowly, like a moon creeping into the night sky, Angel was kissing him back.

*

Then they were kissing like lovers, and Angel was lost. Spike was clinging to Angel's shoulders, and Angel was pulling him closer, the sweat and shine on their skin making every move slippery and slow.

Flashthought of days ago, when Connor had come out of the bathroom, found them tangled together like this (not like this) on the bed. The look on his face—Angel couldn't read it, but it made him wonder what exactly Connor thought he saw.

Because he and Spike, they didn't *do*... this. Not together, in any case. Spike was trailing his mouth along Angel's jaw, making him moan, making his back arch again. Angel tipped his head back, let Spike have at his neck.

"You know, this is probably really stupid," he said conversationally, as he pressed his thigh against Spike's dick.

*

"Hmmmm," Spike murmured and nodded, but his lips stayed fastened onto the skin of Angel's neck. Probably didn't begin to cover it. Letting Dru drag him home; falling in love with Buffy; letting them shove a soul back into him; these were things that were _probably_ stupid.

Kissing Angel with his whole body, as if he needed him like blood, was quite possibly the stupidest thing Spike had ever done.

He pressed his dick up into the hard thigh rubbing him off, ran his hands down Angel's spine, nodded and murmured again. But he didn't stop the kissing.

*

Angel had no idea what "hmm" meant; he'd always been lousy at interpreting Spike (anyone).

All he knew was that this felt — good. He felt good, and Spike felt— good, in a way neither of them really had a right to. And the worst of it should have been Connor (taking his son to his *bed*) but the truth of it was that being alone with Spike (enjoying it, wanting it, fucking needing it) was probably the much stupider thing.

"Hmm," he murmured back, hissing as blunt teeth closed around his windpipe.

*

Spike couldn't rightly remember the last time Angel had stretched his neck out for anyone's teeth, fanged or no. The old man seemed... vulnerable, like this, arched and open and even younger than the boy who had left them just a few days ago.

Christ, was it only days? Seemed like a lifetime, so much had changed. Between him and Angel, especially. The kid had worked some kind of freaky mojo on his dad, like he'd cursed him with twice the soul he'd ever had before. A super-sized soul. Extra-froofy.

Spike giggled against Angel's neck. Angel pulled back and glared down at him, the froof evaporating, like bubbles popping. Spike laughed out loud, then.

"What's so fucking funny?" Angel looked almost wounded, and Spike had to put on a serious face. Try not to hurt the poof's feelings.

"Nothing. Just wondering what Connor'd think, seeing us all..." Mushy? Romantic? Sweeter than pink lollipops? He couldn't find the right words, so he waved his hand around in a vague gesture.

"He'd probably want to join in," Angel grinned, and then just as quick, the smile vanished from his face. He sat up, frowning into the sheets, fingers massaging a small stain of blood as if the motion could wash it clean.

Spike sighed, sat up too. "Don't start with the guilt trip again, Angel. Taken more than enough turns on that merry-go-round. He's okay with what happened. Wouldn'ta done it, if he hadn't been."

Angel nodded. "It's just... It can't happen again. I know that." He closed his eyes, and Spike could almost see the blood rushing beneath Angel's skin, from his heart down to his dick. His voice was a whisper. "But part of me wishes it could."

For a second, Spike felt sorry for the old man. But he was too preoccupied with the blood rushing to his own dick to give it much notice.

He pulled the sheet away from Angel's thighs. Swung his legs over until he was straddling Angel's lap, and took both their cocks in his fist. Angel's eyes opened, and Spike's voice softened into wide-eyed innocence and an American accent.

"I can still be your boy. Dad."

*

Angel jerked (flinched away-arched closer).

He shut his eyes, back of his head thudding against the wall. Spike ground down harder. Thin and strong.

"Fuck," Angel muttered, "don't do that."

*

Spike's fist filled tighter with Angel's dick, feeling it swell under his fingers. "Why not?" His voice was fresh as spring rain. "Think I don't know what you want? Think we never talked about you, your boys in bed together, all blue eyes and pink lips," Spike put his thumb into his mouth, tasted Angel's pre-come, "while you were all alone in your big hotel, thinking about us," he slid the thumb back over Angel's cock and leaned in, lips brushing in his ear, "touching yourself? I know what you want. How you like to make little boys scream. Make them beg." He slid his tongue down the side of Angel's neck. "Gonna beg for you, daddy," he murmured. "Gonna beg so pretty."

*

Sharp jolt in Angel's chest, like the first sight of morning through protective glass, like the tip of Spike's tongue obscenely pressed between his own lips. Angel grabbed a fistful of Spike's hair, tugged his head back, bent his neck. And Spike went along with it, let himself go loose and obedient, as if the hundred years between instinct and independence had never happened at all.

Angel traced the long rope of muscle from chest to jaw with his fangs. Left a trail of blood pooled on the surface, unspilled. Spike whined.

"But I've already heard you beg," Angel said, teeth points around one of Spike's nipples, thorns on red, red roses. "Wanna hear what you talked about instead. Bet you can make that sound pretty for me, too, can't you, boy?"

*

The point of fangs in Spike's skin was a needle-jolt, shining and addictive. It made his cock leap, made him fly higher than heroin. It mixed with the memory of Connor's questions (voice like powder dusting Spike's skin), stronger than any magic.

"Wanted to know all about us," he gasped, "back in the day. How you used to mark me all over," and Angel nipped at Spike's chest, leaving a cut finer than thread, "for hours, before you'd let me come." Spike's hand reached down blindly, eyes closed behind pinpricks of pleasure, and stroked Angel's cock. "Wanted to know how it felt to have this inside, pressing me open." He squeezed, and Angel let out the barest breath. "Told him it felt like home."

*

And maybe Spike was just making up pretty poetry (lies) for Angel, but it didn't matter. Because Angel could see them, panting and sweating, open mouths and open legs. Could hear them whispering secrets and groaning curses. Could imagine himself a part of something sweet and real; even if it was only inside the span of time it would take for Spike to finish his story.

Angel let his head fall back again, let Spike's hands take him to pieces. "Don't stop," he said, but it didn't sound at all like an order.

*

"He moved like silk, Angel." Spike's hand smoothed its way back down the cock filling his fist, and he knew Angel was remembering, behind closed eyes. Imagining longer, thinner fingers against his skin. "Like sin. All soft, pretty lips and smooth muscles." Spike wriggled himself further into Angel's lap, caressed Angel's dick with hard, flexing muscles. "Pink and perfect. Barely ever been touched."

Spike knelt up, hovering over Angel's cock, then slid down onto him, gasping at the stretch.

"Like me, when Dru first brought me home," he whispered into Angel's ear, and felt the answering groan rumble inside him.

_Once upon a time._

*

Spike was pressed tight against Angel's chest, arms wound round his neck like a child seeking comfort. All while grinding down on Angel's cock, whispering his dirty secrets in Angel's ear.

Angel pulled him closer, held his hips still, made him wriggle and groan. Little sounds of frustration that made Angel want to smile.

"I remember," he said, voice soft as innocent skin.

Spike opened his eyes, and for just a blink couldn't quite manage to hide the surprise in them.

"I remember," Angel said again, "and I think about it. When I'm alone."

*

The confession shivered up Spike's back like quicksilver. He closed his eyes, dipped his head. His cock tremored, pressed hard and tight against Angel's belly.

He lifted his thighs, sighing at the movement, and slid down again, press of Angel's cock squeezing tighter inside him. Angel murmured—not quite a groan, but not quite stillness, either.

Spike always had loved making him move. He'd never dared dream that he could make Angel move even when he wasn't there.

"What do you remember?" And maybe it was too much, maybe he was pushing too far. But the thought was too tantalizing to leave alone. "Tell me," and he wasn't the least bit ashamed of begging so soon; not at all.

*

"I remember the look on your face the first time I fucked you, just like this," Angel said, holding Spike's head still with a palm on the back of his neck.

Spike's mouth was open, tongue pressed behind his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Blood pooled red from cheeks to chest, a long trail of heat beneath cold white skin that Angelus used to spend hours tracing with fangs and fingernails.

"I remember the sounds you made the first time I let you fuck me," Angel continued, squeezing the tip of Spike's dick between his thumb and forefinger. He let Spike arch against him, biting his own lip to keep still when he whined again, shrill and musical.

"I remember the way you would look at me for approval after a hunt, and the way you screamed my name when you came."

Spike's eyes were open now, laying Angel bare, but letting this all spill out after a hundred years was like a drug, like something seductive and terrifying. Angel couldn't make himself stop. He shut his eyes and kept talking.

"I remember you dancing with Drusilla in the snow in St. Petersburg. And I remember not being able to kill either of you in Sunnydale, even when I knew you would try to kill me."

*

And that was the difference, right there. What had changed between them. It wasn't just Connor who had bridged the gap. It was the same thing that had stayed Angel's hand back in Sunnydale. More than guilt, more than memory.

(You think you can fool me?)

The thing Spike didn't have back in those days, but was burning in his chest now, with every whisper falling from Angel's lips.

(soulheartlove)

Spike ran his thumb over Angel's closed eyelids, dropped a kiss on his brow.

"I remember the way you watched us, when we danced. Me and Dru. You smiled, when you thought we weren't looking. Thought I didn't notice, but I did."

*

Angel smiled now; at the memory of skin white as teeth, and linen skirts ringed wet with snow. Feminine laughter that rang out clear as (church bells), long hair darkened with blood and stars.

Angelus had always loved his art.

"You were pretty together," he said, opening his eyes, still smiling, "even as much as you were a pain my ass."

*

Spike wriggled himself down further on Angel's cock. Got a sigh for his troubles. "Pain in _your_ ass?" He grinned. "Seems to me it was always mine getting tormented. Like the time you shoved a cross up there. Coulda done without that." But he was still grinning.

He ran his fingers through Angel's hair, watched his face shimmer between smiles and sighs, eyelids opening-closing. Kept rocking in Angel's lap, to the rhythm of breath and memories.

"Always liked it better when we did it like this," Spike went on, and his smile was secret and soft.

*

"You hung the drained body of the town constable from a lampost in the town center," Angel replied, "you're lucky I didn't shove the whole altar up there."

Spike ducked his head, looked up at Angel from underneath those ridiculous lashes. "Made you smile though," he said. He was still rocking too slowly, leaving wet trails along Angel's stomach with each press of his cock.

"Make me do a lot more than smile if you move that pretty ass now," Angel told him. And his smile was wide and not so benevolent.

*

"Really?" Spike's grin was like a cat after catching a meal, lazy and far too pleased with itself. He leaned in, weight on his knees, and began pistoning up and down, watching Angel's expression change from sinner to saint and back again.

"Love being able to see your face when we fuck," he murmured. "The way your mouth opens in that evil little smile, when I do this," and Spike twisted his hips, clenching down tight.

*

"Jesus," Angel muttered, back to religion with a single swish of slim hips, and hadn't that always been the way?

Spike's eyes were half mast, his hair just curls and sweat. Angel wrapped his finger up inside one of the slippery strands just behind Spike's ear, and tugged.

Spike looked at him, grin cocky and contagious.

"So what else do you love?" Angel asked.

*

_You_, it was on the tip of Spike's tongue to say, but there was no way he was gonna spoil the mood with a sappy confession like that. Besides, he figured Angel already kinda knew.

Instead, he said, "Love the way you kiss, like you're taking communion from a chalice." He leaned in, and Angel captured his mouth, angling Spike's head with both hands, and the feel of Angel's wide, supple mouth on his settled hot in his belly, just like always. Spike pulled away, eyes closed, his forehead resting against Angel's. "Yeah. Like that."

His hips began to move faster without him even realizing it.

"Love your hands, too. The way you can fit nearly my whole dick in your fist," and he grinned a challenge.

*

"Yea," Angel said, smirking back, "much as I love your subtlety."

But Spike's body always had fit in Angel's hands, whether he was wrapping his fingers around his wrist to hold him still, or around his dick to make him shake. And Angel didn't much believe in coincidences, anymore.

Spike groaned as soon as Angel touched him, rocked himself faster in the cradle of Angel's hips, drew his tongue up the side of Angel's neck.

Angel lay his other palm along the small of Spike's back, gathered sweat in small circles with his thumb, found his hand fit perfectly there too.

*

"Christ," Spike murmured, his head lolling forward to rest on Angel's shoulder. He wanted to say more, but speech was beyond him. His body turned to liquid in Angel's hands, like it didn't quite belong to him anymore. Like Angel was sculpting him, making him over into something molten and obscene. Some objet d'art to be coveted, possessed, owned.

"You feel so fucking good," and it felt too intimate to say, but Spike didn't care.

*

Spike had his face hidden in Angel's shoulder, whispers falling on to the patch of sweaty skin just below his neck. It was the most intimate part of all this— of all they'd ever done, together, really. Sharing fists and fangs, fucking, that was easy. It was the sharing of words that was unfamiliar. Dangerous.

Angel tugged Spike's head back, ran his thumb over the slope of his nose, the crooked scar on his brow. Pressed a kiss there as he arched his hips up, hard and fast, caught Spike's shudder in his hand. He watched Spike bite his own lip to keep from coming. Leaned in, and bit it for him.

"Don't worry about it," Angel said, quietly, "promise, you can go back to hating me in the morning."

*

"K," was all he managed to say. There was so much more, but it stayed stuck in his throat. Words like _won't_ and _can't_ and _not this time_, and maybe even _never again_.

They'd been through enough, loved and hated enough for Spike to know that never was a long time. But right now, in this moment, it seemed as if their entire history could fit in the space between the small of his back and Angel's hands. His head was swimming with it, the one constancy in his long, lonely life: the smell of Angel's skin. The taste of his blood. The need Spike felt every time he touched him.

He wanted to say all this, wanted to wax poetic, tattoo their story beneath Angel's skin. But the most he could manage was, "Please."

*

_Gonna beg for you so pretty, Daddy_ Spike had said, wearing the grin that came with the script. The old costume he put on so often, they'd both forgotten that it was one. They needed ulterior motives and complex rituals to be able to touch each other, just to be able to stand in the same space and not tear one another apart.

It was a jolt, every damn time, having Spike in his lap whispering please without any artifice. Being able to lay hands on him without leaving bruises. Being able to ask him, "please what?" without meaning anything else at all.

*

Spike always closed his eyes when he came; a habit born of lovers who used him as a way to get off, or a way to disappear. Even with Connor, who had looked at him with wide eyes, he'd felt the need to hide himself in the dark.

(All I ask is that you try to see me)

"Please, Da," he said, voice like desert dunes, "look at me."

Angel moved, looked him in the eye; and the heat Spike saw there flew like a bolt down his belly. His body bucked and spasmed, and even if Angel wasn't seeing him, there was no hiding from the knowledge of just who was making him shake.

"Christ. _Angel_," and he came hard in Angel's fist, needy and ashamed; but grateful that for once, he'd managed to keep his eyes open.

*

Angel looked at him.

And he thought about Spike kissing Connor, sleepy eyed and vulnerable, splayed naked across his bed. He thought about Spike kissing Drusilla, the way he held her face in his hands like she could actually break. He thought about Spike shoving pokers through his gut, and Spike hitting him over the head with crowbars, crosses (common fucking sense).

All of their history and heroics, all of their epic stupidity, right here, in Angel's lap.

Spike was looking desperate, shaken, needful. (Spike was looking back.)

And when Angel came, he couldn't see anyone else.

*

They shuddered and shook, and then they stilled; and then, Spike had to hide his face in Angel's shoulder. Couldn't confront what had just happened; couldn't even begin to know what it was. He stayed like that for a long time, forehead pressed against Angel's collarbone, his hands dropping down to his sides.

Eventually he slid out of Angel's lap, rolled onto his back, and threw one arm over his eyes. He still couldn't look at Angel.

" 'M tired," he said, and hoped that was enough. It was the closest to truth he could manage.

*

Angel blinked at Spike, wondering if he was supposed to be annoyed. If Spike expected—wanted—him to be annoyed.

_You can go back to hating me in the morning_

Truth was, Angel mostly felt relieved. It would certainly be much easier, this way. Spike was curled in on himself like a cat trying and failing miserably to hide, arm flung over his eyes (if I can't see you you can't see me). Angel grinned. Dropped a kiss on the side of Spike's head, and lay down next to him, just a couple of inches away.

"Go to sleep, moron," he said. Only somehow it came out sounding a little like an endearment.

*

Spike nodded, as much a gesture of thanks as agreement. "K," he murmured. He nudged a little closer to Angel, rolling over onto one side. Angel's weight made the mattress dip in the middle. It always had.

He flung one arm over Angel's chest, trying to get settled. Just to balance himself, mind you; to keep from rolling inwards. It was more comfortable that way.

He was asleep in seconds; and his dreams, usually full of blood and torment, were for once peaceful.


End file.
